


A Close Shave

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Even When He's Loving, Facial Shaving, Gift Fic, Greg Lestrade Is A Sex-Beast, Hurried Sex, M/M, OT3, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Referenced Johnlockstrade, Shaving, Sherlock is a Brat, Straight Razors, Top Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock won't take "I'll be late for work" for an answer once he gets an eyeful of Greg shaving with an old-fashioned straight razor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Close Shave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> My usual note applies: I reserve the "Explicit" rating for kink/violence/non-con. This story contains graphic sex.
> 
> I am posting this on Easter Sunday but refuse to make any of the obvious "He is risen!" jokes.
> 
> The delicious and delectable YoursTruly prompted: "Greg has spent the night at Baker Street and is getting ready for work in the morning in Sherlock's bathroom. Greg always shaves with a straight razor and it turns Sherlock on to watch him." YT's most recent fic based on my prompt ("Hush"--go read it!) included yummy OT3 Johnlockstrade action, so I was inspired to reference that beautiful triad here, as well. The storyishness of it took me by surprise (you'll see what I mean), but never fear--this is a PWP. It's just a PWP with heart.

A weekday morning, three men, only one bathroom.

Greg and John had shared the first shower—no funny business, Greg had to be at NSY at nine sharp for a mandatory training session, and John had a first-of-the-day dental appointment—and now John was in the bedroom dressing and Sherlock was in the shower, while Greg wiped steam from the mirror so he could shave. Their arrangement was still new—Greg still hadn’t officially moved in, though he hadn’t slept anywhere but 221B in over a month—but they were finding their way.

John was singing—quiet, just above his breath—and Greg couldn’t resist pressing the door open a bit more under the guise of clearing the steam, just to hear him better. A Stevie Wonder tune they’d heard in a film on television recently, an oldie, upbeat and comfortingly familiar—that John Watson could be a right cheerful bastard when he wanted to be: singing as he buttoned up his shirt, probably dancing a bit in his sock feet. Greg grinned, then yawned, and went into the leather bag he kept on the back of the toilet ( _we can clear a shelf in the medicine chest you know—I’ve never known why Sherlock keeps rubber cement and those broken wristwatches in there, anyhow_ ) for his soap and brush.

“Turning on the hot tap, Sherlock, watch yourself.” The water was quick to warm and then to steam, and Greg dampened his shaving brush—ceramic grip, badger bristles—then gave it few good whacks against the edge of the sink to shake off the excess.

“ _Gah!_ ”

“I warned you.”

“Freezing!”

Sherlock sloshed a bit, a last quick rinse, then the shower turned off. His skinny arm snaked out from behind the curtain and went to a high shelf nearby for the first of his customary three towels, not the exclusive reason John had recently hired a girl to come in twice a week—to bundle laundry and dry cleaning, wipe the kitchen worktops, run the hoover—but certainly among the primary ones. Greg fetched out his round scrap of shaving soap in its little wooden tray, dragged a hand towel across the surface of the mirror one last time, and swirled the brush in quick circles across the surface of the soap.  John was still singing, but the song was different, another old ‘60s one, though Greg suspected John would be more familiar with the New Wave version from the ‘80s and made a mental note to find the original on the internet and make sure both of his lovers got a proper education. Some things were just that important.

Sherlock dragged the shower curtain aside, a rattling scrape of metal beads  against metal rod. He was wrapped at the waist—as Greg was—in a navy blue bath towel, and fetched down two more, one of which he turbaned around his head, the other draped over his shoulders like a cape after making a supplementary pass over his arms and torso. He stepped out onto the slightly crumpled, damp bath mat. Greg caught his eye in the mirror, and winked.

Sherlock stood very still, and his gaze drifted down to Greg’s hands, swirling the brush to work up a lather in his opposite palm. “Bit old-fashioned, even for you,” Sherlock commented drily, but his mouth curved up affectionately around the words.

“This is how a man does it.” Greg brushed a layer of opaque lather across his right cheek, bit his lips as he swirled the brush over his chin and upper lip, went back for more foam, then circled the left side of his face then beneath his jaw, all the way across.

“Yes, I know. I pay a man to do it on my behalf.”

“That’s how a ponce does it,” Greg jibed. Sherlock hummed displeasure at being made the butt of a joke but said nothing, only reached past Greg to open the medicine chest and retrieve deodorant.

Greg set the brush in the sink and went into his bag again. Sherlock leaned over his back, rested his chin on Greg’s shoulder as he replaced his deodorant behind the mirror. Greg could feel Sherlock’s jaw press downward as Greg drew his hand out of the bag.

Even folded as it was, Greg’s straight razor was a thing of beauty, slivery-blue mother of pearl handle with decorative caps of antique silver. Sherlock wrapped a long arm around Greg’s midsection, spread his palm open across Greg’s pectoral muscle. Greg leaned slightly, felt the curl of Sherlock’s damp chest and belly against the whole surface of his back.

“Take that thing off your head,” Greg intoned, and flicked open the razor to reveal its mirror-like steel blade. He expertly caught its little metal tail against his pinky to balance it elegantly in his hand. “You look like my auntie.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes grumpily but did as he was told, shrugging off the towel from his shoulders, too, for good measure. He leaned away from Greg long enough to check the mirror while he pieced apart his hair with his fingers, bending curls into submission before they dried. Greg leaned forward, reached his left hand over his head to pull the right side of his face upward, tightening the skin there, then eased the blade downward along his cheek. Sherlock watched in the mirror, still standing close behind him.

“You’re breathing down my neck.”

“Is it turning you on?” A kiss for good measure: gently suckling lips in the hollow where Greg’s stretched-forward neck met his solid shoulder.

“Everything you do gets me going,” Greg rumbled back at him, before he took another pass, closer to his ear. “But I can’t afford the distraction this morning. I can’t be late.”

Sherlock stepped around beside him, slumped one shoulder against the wall by the light switch to watch Greg himself, rather than just his reflection. Greg rinsed the blade clean under the running tap, then slid it down to finish the lowest third of his cheek, just to the edge of his jaw. He glanced sideways long enough to register that Sherlock’s sensuous lower lip was hanging apart from the top one, and his eyes were wide. Greg grinned, rinsed the blade again.

“John?” Sherlock said then, a bit above his normal volume, “Have you seen this?” His eyes were fixed on Greg’s hands as he moved to pull taut the opposite side of his face and stroke the shining blade downward along his cheek. The sandpapery scrape of the blade crossing Greg’s whiskers was vaguely audible in the echo chamber of the bathroom.

John appeared in the doorway between the bath and bedroom. He surveyed the scene briefly, then said, “Ah! Yeah. Our Greg’s an old-fashioned man-about-town. I tried that a bit when I was younger; nearly slashed my jugular.”

“It’s glorious,” Sherlock said. “I’m half-mad with lust.”

John grinned, caught Greg’s eye in the mirror. “It’s quite sexy, I agree,” he said.

Greg waved the razor vaguely in the air. “This is excellent information,” he smiled. “But _you_ have an appointment—“ he gestured at John’s reflection with the tip of the razor, then turned his head to meet Sherlock’s now decidedly  hungry gaze, “and I have this mandatory whatnot I _cannot_ be late for. So shove off, the both of you.”

Sherlock grabbed the cuff of John’s sleeve, tried to tug him into the bathroom. “John,” he urged, “Come here quick, and lick me open so Greg can fuck me and still not be late.”

John huffed a laugh. “Tempting as that is, the dental hygienist is a nice older lady who reminds me of your mum—“

“ _Why_ would you say such a thing.”

“—and I couldn’t live with myself if I went in there with _that_ on my tongue.” John cut a glance toward Sherlock’s towel-draped backside.

Greg held the razor away from his lip long enough to laugh.

Sherlock pulled on John’s cuff until his hand came to rest in the small of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock nuzzled nose and cheek and lips against John’s temple. He intoned, “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?”

John bit his lip and rolled his eyes heavenward as if looking to strengthen his resolve. “Oh, I’m absolutely certain you could,” John replied, disentangling himself from Sherlock’s half-embrace. “That’s why I’m leaving _right **now**_.” He leaned in again, just near enough to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. Greg noted the downcast, almost bashful, movement of Sherlock’s eyes and his soft smile as John moved away. The two of them and their _I love you_ ’s. He didn’t begrudge it; in fact, part of him was something like envious. Greg wasn’t there yet, but he could see the first signs, up ahead in the middle-distance; just a ways to go. John slid one hand down Greg’s bare back, then patted Greg’s hip, and planted a quick kiss on his bare shoulder. “Good luck with this.”

Greg leaned close to the mirror, raised his chin. “Don’t worry about me,” he assured as John went. Sherlock quickly slipped into the spot John had vacated, covered the damp ghost of John’s mostly chaste kiss with his own, open-mouthed one. “I’ve told you,” Greg scolded, “I can’t be late this morning.”

John called a goodbye from the landing and there followed the vague echo of his footsteps down the stairs followed by the heavy front door opening and closing.

“That’s why I’m—“ Sherlock’s breath hitched as his shoulder rolled forward with a sudden shiver, one long-fingered hand vanishing under the rumpled edge of his bath towel. “—going to take care of the preliminaries myself.” His head rolled heavily forward and he sucked his teeth, then rested his chin on Greg’s shoulder, and their gazes met in the mirror once more. “Go on then; you don’t want to be late.”

Greg’s cock was warming and becoming heavy, responding in kind to Sherlock’s appreciation regardless of whatever protest Greg was making. He shifted his weight, brought his focus back to the task at hand, lifting his lower lip to flatten the skin of his upward-tilted chin. He re-settled the razor in his hand before angling it precisely against the very edge of his bottom lip and stroking downward, steadily, smoothly, not too fast. He passed it quickly under the tap and repeated the motion a few inches to the right. Sherlock moaned audibly, then pressed his upper teeth against the rope of Greg’s trapezius muscle as it shifted beneath his skin.

Sherlock checked that Greg was watching his reflection, then made a show of sliding two of his long fingers impossibly far into his mouth, licking and sucking, wetting them thoroughly. Of the three of them, Sherlock had the deepest throat—Greg would not be at all surprised to learn he had somehow managed to delete his gag reflex. For his part, Greg was the most aggressive, and probably the most selfish—no small feat, given they were all three men—and could also usually hold out longest, small comfort for the fact that at his age it was increasingly likely to take him several extra minutes to get fully hard; John and Sherlock were both sporting about it, though, and neither complained about the bonus foreplay. In fact, John was particularly accommodating, given that he was perhaps the most creative. Ol’ Three Continents was frequently heard to murmur (or moan, or command): “There’s something I think we should try. . .” Nothing was routine, none of them was sinking into any ruts, and it wasn’t for nothing that Greg never slept anywhere else; it seemed unlikely their arrangement would ever find any of them bored.

Drawing his saliva-slicked fingers from his mouth and raising one foot onto the closed lid of the toilet, Sherlock leaned one shoulder against Greg’s back for balance. “This is the most arousing thing I have ever seen you do, and as I say that you may wish to recall the sorts of things I’ve seen, just in the past week.”

“Hush, you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Greg angled his face to get a better view. “No,” he agreed, and scraped the blade along his chin again. “I don’t mean it.”

“ _Fuck,_ that’s gorgeous,” Sherlock groaned. “Is there any slick in that cabinet? Pass it here.”

“We’re three men fucking in our twos and threes every day, Sherlock,” Greg replied, going behind the mirror for a shapely blue plastic bottle and flipping the top with his thumb. “Sometimes twice. There’s slick _everywhere_.” He held the bottle aloft beside his chest and Sherlock nearly lost his balance reaching for it. Momentarily there was the hollow clatter of the plastic bottle hitting the floor tiles, then rolling away, and Greg felt Sherlock shifting and shuddering against his back, and he gulped a huge breath. Greg glanced at the wristwatch he wasn’t wearing, then caught his bottom lip between his teeth under the pretense of flattening his chin for one last pass with the glinting blade of the razor.

Another check on Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror revealed that his eyes were half-shut and his tongue darted out to moisten lips made dry by rushing breath Greg felt ghosting across his ear and neck. A downward, sideways glance and Greg saw Sherlock’s toes curling, seeking something to grip.

“Christ, you’re going to be the death of me. I told you I don’t have time.” Greg shifted his focus back to his own reflection and the mischievous hunger he felt was plain on his face. Of course he would make time. But Sherlock didn’t have to know that—not right away, at least.

“It can be quick,” Sherlock muttered, and he tugged his towel aside until it fell to the floor. Greg could feel Sherlock hard against the back of his thigh through his own bath towel, and then the distinct motion of Sherlock’s hand as it slid hard and quick down the length of his cock, then circled the crown with his palm (Greg could see it vividly in his mind’s eye and his mouth watered). Sherlock gasped a hard inhale. “Hard and fast.”

With determined focus on keeping his voice steady, Greg challenged, “That how you like it?” He tipped his pelvis against the edge of the sink as he leaned in to get a better view of his bared neck, reigning in his now nearly completely firm prick between his towel and the sink-edge.

Sherlock was rapidly unraveling. He bit his lip and nodded hard, releasing his grip on his cock to steady himself with one hand gripping Greg’s arm just above his elbow. “I like every way you fuck me,” he gulped, then swiped his hot tongue upward along the back of Greg’s neck, burrowed the tip of his nose in his close-trimmed hair. Greg could feel the motion of his downward-thrust arm as he twisted his wrist in slow half-circles. “I’m so ready for you.”

Greg’s mouth was watering and he swallowed hard, slipped the blade of the razor in a slow, lingering slide from the edge of his jaw, down the length of his neck, then flicked the lather at the drain before rinsing the blade beneath the hot tap. “I can tell,” he muttered, a bit of extra wind in his voice. “You’re gagging for it. Too bad I haven’t the time.”

Sherlock whimpered against the back of Greg’s ear, “You’re lying.”

Greg hummed noncommittally, just two more passes down his throat and he’d be finished. “It’s tempting, I’ll give you that.” He rinsed the blade, shook off the excess water and lifted the razor to the base of his uplifted chin. “Nearly done, see?”

Sherlock’s face appeared in the reflection as he watched Greg shaving the last of his stubble in two slow, steady passes down the center of his throat. Sherlock’s eyes drifted up and back, nearly closed, and he let out a multi-syllabic moan, delicious in its blend of desire and distress. His entire body rolled upward along Greg’s back.

Greg gave the razor a final rinse, shook it dry, flicked it shut and tossed it into his leather bag. He reached for a dry flannel and wiped away a bit of stray lather beside one ear and at the base of his throat. “Tell you what,” he gruffed, and fetched what even he would admit was an old man’s after shave (but he liked it, so fuck it) out of his bag and splashed some into his cupped palm. “I’ll bend you over, right there,” He clapped his palms together, shifted his eyes toward the bathtub, then slapped and patted the after shave over his face and neck. “And it will be fast. And hard.”

“—god—“

“And I’ll fuck your gorgeous arse, but you’d better be ready to come quick. I want to feel you clenching around my cock so I can get off.” He turned then, and grabbed for Sherlock’s hips, hustling him around to face the edge of the bath tub. “Don’t waste my time, Sherlock. I won’t be made to look like I’m slacking, in front of my whole department, just for some half-dead fuck.” His tilted smile belied the almost-cruel content of his scold. He was playing the hard man to Sherlock’s hotted-up fuckboy, but the reality was that Greg would gladly strut into that conference room hours late—days late, next week, christ, next _month_ —if it meant he could spend the next several minutes with his prick rocking in and out of the slick heat between Sherlock’s impossibly plump arse-cheeks. And he was sure they _both_ knew it.

“I’m close,” Sherlock husked out, letting Greg arrange him to his liking, long hands folding over the top edge of the tub, feet spread, vaguely rocking his hips side to side, pressing back in search of contact. “My cock’s dripping; a few pulls and I’ll be coming all around you.”

Greg reached across his own hips for the tucked-in corner and loosened it, let the towel drop and kicked it aside. He grabbed and grappled at Sherlock’s hips, tucking his fingers into the crease between belly and thigh, drawing Sherlock harshly backward to settle the crown of his thick, thrumming cock in the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, bumping it up against Sherlock’s softened-open hole.

“You’re ready,” Greg rumbled, driving his hips forward and back to let his cock gather some of the slick clinging to Sherlock’s hot skin. “Good man.” Greg was huffing, practically grunting, desperate to get his cock inside Sherlock’s body, fuck him hard and make him come. “You’re always so eager, all soft and wet, how could I say no?”

“Mm, you couldn’t,” Sherlock murmured, and licked his palm and the flats of his long fingers. “I knew you couldn’t.” He reached for his prick and started to stroke. “Come on, now, fuck me quick.” He squirmed a bit, and Greg quickly grabbed the base of his cock and guided it home, pushing forward with a steady, slow thrust that made them both groan. “Fuck me hard. Come on.”

“Yeah.”

Greg softened his knees and pressed down on Sherlock’s low back with wide palms curling along the upper edge of his arse, fingertips dimpling the skin at the outsides of his hips. A low, throaty huff of breath as he pushed past the lip of softened muscle, and Greg began to rock in drumbeat time, watching the edge of Sherlock’s jaw work as he gasped and moaned, the rolling of his shoulder and twitch of his tricep as he pulled on his prick.

A few strokes in, Sherlock began to emit soft grunts as he took each thrust, pushing his hips back to meet them, and their skin smacked together as Greg sank fully inside. Greg huffed a rhythmic, “Yeah. Mm. Yeah. Mm. . .” Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes was as if he was daring Greg— _harder. . .faster_ —and Greg gripped his hips tighter, fucked him quicker, his heels lifting off the tile and the muscles of his calves straining, threatening to cramp.

Sherlock hummed encouragement, and Greg could see the muscles of his long arm working faster as he stroked himself. “So good,” Sherlock reeled out, low and needy. “Oh— _fuck!_ — I’m close.”

“Better be. Come for me now, Sherlock.” Greg’s jaw was tight, gritting his teeth. “Quick, now, come on, darling. I need you to come for me. I want to feel it. Feel you coming all around me.”

Sherlock’s back curled, and he shuddered down the length of his whole, pale body, and with a few rapid strokes of his hand he did come, with a hiccupping mew followed by a low, drawn-out, “ _Ohh_. . .”

Greg slowed, nearly stopped, savouring the way Sherlock’s deep interior muscles clutched and fluttered through the thick of his orgasm, quivering around Greg’s deeply-buried cock. Sherlock braced himself with both hands against the edge of the bathtub, dropping his shoulders and rolling his head on his neck, arching his spine in a way that bowed his long, pretty back. Greg muttered a thick, “ _Beautiful_. . .” and resumed his pace, fucking Sherlock through four or five more deep, quick strokes before his bollocks tightened up and his cock swelled so it was almost _too_ close, _too_ hot inside, and he leaned forward on flat palms against Sherlock’s low back, steadying himself as his legs began to shake and weaken.

“ _Mm_ ,” was all Greg could manage, and Sherlock echoed it back at him, which made them both let go quick laughs under their breath.

Greg eased out his softening cock, reached for Sherlock’s arms and drew him up into an embrace, kissed him in the divot beside his nose, then just below the outer corner of his eye.

Sherlock’s hand found its way to Greg’s newly-smooth cheek and his fingertips danced down along it, traced along his jaw, then down his throat: felt the thrum of his pulse in the soft hollow at the side, and the gentle protrusion of his adam’s apple at the center, retreating and advancing as Greg swallowed. Sherlock’s ice-green eyes were sleepy-soft as they met Greg’s gaze, then he leaned in close, inhaled the scent of Greg’s neck just below his ear. His tongue-tip darted out and up, flicked against the bottom edge of Greg’s ear lobe as he moved away.

“Now I’m definitely going to be late,” Greg complained, though it was no real complaint. Sherlock was rifling in Greg’s shaving kit. He drew out the little wooden tray of shaving soap, and the razor folded into its opalescent blue handle, then picked the stiff-bristled brush out of the sink. He opened the medicine chest, shoved aside a few random items on the bottom shelf and arranged Greg’s things in the newly-cleared space.

“There,” Sherlock pronounced, turning to grace Greg with another small, closed-lip smile—one Greg knew to be precious, as Sherlock’s genuine smiles were extremely rare and exceptionally hard-won—then sidling up close beside him, tracing long fingers down Greg’s arm from shoulder to elbow to wrist. “You’ve moved in.”

Greg felt he should protest, but couldn’t bring himself to give it voice.

Sherlock’s lips moved against Greg’s ear, and in that maddening, know-it-all tone, he whispered, “You love us.” Sherlock moved past him into the bedroom, and again Greg didn’t argue, only reached to close the mirrored door. Everything, it seemed, was in its proper place.


End file.
